


Esto No Me Gusta

by dormant_bender



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempt at Humor, Awkward Flirting, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fate & Destiny, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, One Shot, Original Character Death(s), POV Third Person, Past Relationship(s), Song Lyrics, Texting, Timeline What Timeline, post-recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 01:05:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6352708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormant_bender/pseuds/dormant_bender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing is ever perfect all the time, and it's only natural that life eventually gets in the way.</p><p>—</p><p>"You always said that when you want something, you have to fight for it, and I want you.. And I've been fighting for you ever since you left that one night, when she walked in on us. Even she knew what was going on between us and her and I talked about it and she understood why I did what I did."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Esto No Me Gusta

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this all starting at 11 last night and didn't finish until 2AM, but I started proofreading earlier this morning, so I hope there aren't that many mistakes c: 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy reading it, though~ I appreciate the kudos and comments :3 
> 
> Paragraphs in italics are flashbacks c:
> 
> ** Title from the song 'El Perdon,' and it means: "I don't like this."
> 
> [[ Disclaimer: I do not own the lyrics or the song 'El Perdon,' all rights go to their respective owners. ]]

 

There had been a time where the Brasileiro had spent the vast majority of his time grinning from ear-to-ear, finding the positives in everything, even the negatives. Yes, he had been injured, but did that mean he was out of the game for the rest of his life?  
  
Definitely not.  
  
Was it true that he had been through heartbreaks throughout his teenage years? Of course, who didn't have their fair share of puppy love and bashfully trailing behind their crush? But he had told himself then that some day he would find someone who wouldn't leave or break up with him in favor of trying to pursue his brother, who politely declined, as a good brother would do.  
  
That is, until he met one person in particular.  
  
Everything seemed to click when the two had first met, though he found himself offering timid smiles, not accepting the pale hand offered to him, but instead tugging the blond into a chaste hug. Because that was who he was, affectionate, and he had no troubles in expressing that in whomever he chose fit.  
  
-  
  
_There he is poised in a neatly ironed shirt with denim jeans, staring curiously at the blue-eyed man before him. Everyone else is whispering about how his nationality is German while Rafinha just smiles, shy and unbelievably timid, as the coach introduces the newest addition to the team.  
  
Tall and German introduces himself in impressive Spanish and the brunet finds himself nearly blanching as he's elbowed by Dani who offers him a quizzical look: "Hello, I am Marc-Andre, from Mönchengladbach in Germany. It is, uh.." Cerulean eyes scan the eyes that are peering at him in scrutiny, absently rubbing at his upper arm as he does so: "It is nice to meet you all and to be a part of the team.. And I hope I do you all justice."  
  
Tanned legs refuse to move even as the others are clapping the blond on his back, some even shaking his hand, until it's finally his turn. He plasters a grin upon his lips as he steps forward, eyes crinkling at the corners, as the pale hand is extended toward him.  
  
Much on their own accord, his arms find themselves wrapping the unsuspecting male in a warm, welcoming embrace. It lasts for a moment longer than it probably should have, not that he bothered counting the exact seconds, but it ends far too soon as he withdraws to offer him a shoulder squeeze. "If you ever need anything, just lemme know, German." teases the male playfully as he turns on his heel to saunter away, halting when he hears that soft voice once more.  
  
"Wait—..." He finds the male jogging towards him, cheeks flushed slightly, as he offers a half-smile, exposing intriguing pointy teeth. "You didn't tell me your name?"  
  
For a considerate moment, he ponders whether to answer or not, but decides that he would supply the information just to hear his name on the latter's lips: curse his peculiar attraction to this random man. "Rafael Alcântara, but I'm pretty sure you already knew that." Confidence builds within his form as he crosses his arms across his chest, "and I'm also guessing you know I go by Rafinha, too, yes?"  
  
Marc chuckles and scratches at the back of his head, offering an affirmative nod. "First impressions are important, and even though I know who you guys are, I still wanted to be formal."  
  
Rafinha crinkles his nose playfully before slinging an arm around the male's shoulder, strolling towards were the others are gathering. "No need, Marquinho. We're friends now, don't you think? Teammates and all that good stuff. More like brothers... Granted: extremely long, lost brothers."  
  
"Yeah, you're right." Marc hums his approval, though he is slightly puzzled by the amount of touching he is currently enduring. "Hopefully good friends, Rafinha."  
  
And that, singlehandedly, was when Rafael knew he was gloriously screwed.  
  
_ -  
  
Now chocolate eyes are staring at the stupid text he had received from the bastard a month prior, the message still impacting him to this day. At least he had fully recovered, he muses to himself, as he attempts to distract himself from the agitation bubbling within his veins as he grits his teeth together.  
  
~-_ _Dime si es verdad  
Me dijeron que te estas casando  
Tú no sabes como estoy sufriendo  
Esto te lo tengo que decir_ _-~  
  
Those horribly accurate lyrics are ringing within his mind as he fingers his beard with his idle hand, eyes squinting more as they read the text in its entirety once more:  
  
**| From: Marquinho ;) |**  
**[ text: 1:03AM | 2/11/2016 ]** Hey Rafa, I called you, but I got your voicemail. Figured you were probably training more. I'm not really sure how to say this, not to you. Just promise you won't be mad at me. I already told the gu..  
  
**| From: Marquinho ;) |**  
**[ text: 1:05AM | 2/11/2016 ]** ys a few days ago and they swore not to tell, and I really hope they didn't. I wanted you to hear it from me and not anyone else. Scheiße. This is a lot harder than I thought it would be. Sinto muito...  
  
**| From: Marquinho ;) |**  
**[ text: 1:08AM | 2/11/2016 ]** I'll just say it: I'm getting married sometime next month. Early, I know, but my parents are pushing it to be sooner rather than later. This thing between us, it has to stop. We can't do this anymore, I'm sorry.  
  
**| From: Marquinho ;) |  
** **[ text: 1:32AM | 2/11/2016 ]** Please say something, Rafa? I still want to be friends with you, I cant let that go. We'll still be as close as we were before, just.. Not like that.  
  
**| To: Ter Stegen |**  
**[ text: 1:45 AM | 2/11/2016 ]** what the fuck am I supposed to say ? im not okay with this and im not going to pretend tht estou feliz por você, porque eu estou chateado. Breaking up over text is classic tho, thanks. Love you, too.  
  
**| From: Ter Stegen |  
** **[ text: 1:46AM | 2/11/2016 ]** Don't do this, Rafa... I'm going to miss you.. I still care about you and I want you to be happy, even if you can't be happy for me. I meant it, though, when I said I loved you. Could never lie to anyone like that.  
  
**| To: Ter Stegen |  
** **[ text: 4:50 AM | 2/11/2016 |** dont. não diga isso. não depois do que você acabou de me dizer... eu não posso acreditar que você, marc. não fala mais comigo. deus, o que o inferno.  
  
**| From: Ter Stegen |  
** **[ text: 4:51AM | 2/11/2016 |** I just needed you to know. I understand you're mad and need to vent, you can. Call me whatever you want, I deserve it. It's hard for me, too, even more than it is for you.  
  
**| To: Ter Stegen |  
** **[ text: 4:57AM | 2/11/2016 |** boa noite.  
  
Who announces something like that over text anyway? A bitter chuckle spews from his chapped lips as he tosses his phone halfheartedly across the couch, sprawling against it with a grunt. The music from the speakers only rises in volume as he adjusts it with the tiny remote, folding his arms neatly behind his head as he stares up at the plain ceiling above.  
  
~-_ _Cuéntame  
Tu despedida para mi fue dura  
Será que él te llevo a la luna  
Y yo no supe hacerlo así_ _-~  
  
Why had he allowed Neymar and Dani authority over his iPod again? But he doesn't have the strength to turn the lyrics off as he nods his head absently to the beat. Chocolate eyes glance at the watch attached to his wrist—a gift from a gracious Messi who offered apologetic looks and soft, comforting back rubs whenever he saw him—to check the time. Soon the interview would air on television and he wasn't certain he was in the right mindset to actually watch it.  
  
Tick, tock. It's as if he can hear the sounds of the hands slowly turning on the watch, the seconds ticking by turning quickly into minutes, until two songs have fully run through and the beginnings of a new one is currently starting. Too upbeat for his taste, muses the man, as he turns the volume down in favor of reaching for the television remote.  
  
There that bastard is on the screen: hair styled to the nines, as per usual, wearing a Barca hoodie and a pair of Nike joggers. Despite the smile that forms upon his lips and the faint pink that colors his cheeks, he isn't happy, Rafinha knows it. It seemed the gleam in his oceanic irises was only present around him, his smiles always reaching his eyes, with little crinkles on the sides.  
  
"Serves you right, you bastard." Rafinha murmurs bitterly to himself as he reaches across the table for the lone banana resting there, opening it, and taking a bite and snorting around it as he listens to the words spewing from the latter.  
  
~-_ _Es que yo sin ti  
Y tú sin mi  
Dime quién puede ser feliz  
Esto no me gusta  
Esto no me gusta_ _-~  
  
-  
  
_The brunet picks up a stride as he maneuvers through the throng of the opposing team's bodies for an opening to pass the ball. He spots one and passes it swiftly off to Pique who passes it to Messi and he sends it spiraling towards the net in one, fluid motion and the crowd erupts in cheers. All he does is smile to himself at the assist he had aided with as he took a moment to catch his breath.  
  
Chocolate eyes inevitably slip toward the goal post where Marc is poised, hunched over with hands resting on his knees, yelling to one of the others and looking completely concentrated on the game at play. He smiles to himself as he jogs along the field, managing to steal the ball from a darker-skinned player and dribbling it for a moment before passing it off once more. This one doesn't result in a goal, however, but he manages to receive the ball and sends it in.  
  
All he can manage is an enthralled yell as he's glomped by his fellow teammates with hands patting and rubbing his back and head, words of encouragement and various compliments being shot his way. All he does is smile in response as the game continues until finally it's over.  
  
They won, which was always amazing to the Brazilian, who is currently in the locking room easing out of his boots. Post-game euphoria was in full-effect and the music was blaring against his eardrums. Some of the guys are dancing while others are talking enthusiastically about the goals managed that day and he's temporarily distracted by the sight of Neymar and Dani dancing in celebration, barely gaining oxygen as they laugh.  
  
A single tap on the shoulder startles him and he glances up, the form of the German towering above him. "Oh, hey. Nice saves out there, as always. Nothing gets past you, Ter." Hums the Brazilian as he finally removes the boots from his feet, sighing in relief. "Incredible as always, what would we do without you?"  
  
Marc playfully shoves him before plopping down on the bench beside him, smiling to himself: "Me? Did you see yourself out there? I'm just lucky I'm good with my hands," and he moves them in emphasis in front of Rafinha's face, who takes them within his own, offering them a fond squeeze. "That goal you made was the best I've seen since joining the club."  
  
Scoff. "You're such a liar," its his turn to shove the blond as he chuckles and shifts on the bench until his thighs are on either side of it. "Though it was pretty damn good, you're not lying when you say that. Not the best, but definitely my personal best. Maybe an eight out of ten."  
  
"What? I'd say ten out of ten."  
  
Brows wiggle playfully then as he rests a hand upon Marc's upper arm, offering the muscle a squeeze: "Always room for improvement, Marquinho, nobody's perfect."  
  
Pink lips part to speak but instead of words spewing from his mouth, he chooses to close it and instead stare into those dark eyes. Rafinha shifts under the intense scrutiny—not uncomfortably, mind you, he's more feeling the heat rise within the room as well as within his shorts—as he returns the stare with one of his own, more amused ones.  
  
"What? Meu deus, Ter, tell me before you explode."  
  
"—..You could have fooled me.."  
  
And he isn't sure who leaned in first but he does know that he meets the latter halfway when he notices the shift of his countenance until his mouth is filled with the warmth of the other's lips. It's a chaste peck, nothing more and nothing less, and had only lasted a second that seemed more like a millennium the more he replays it within his mind.  
  
Marc awkwardly clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck anxiously as he reluctantly rises to his feet, facing Rafinha with an apologetic smile, his cheeks burning with a blush. "I, uh—Yeah. I think I'm going to go shower now and go out for victory dinner." He offers Rafinha, still pleasantly stunned, a peace sign before turning on his heel.  
  
"Wait, wait, wait." Rafa murmurs, seemingly out of his daze as he scrambles to his feet. Marc shifts to face him once more and is confronted by a firm finger in the center of his chest. Cerulean eyes glance down at it before slowly following it from his wrist, up his arm—pausing momentarily to gaze at his smooth, bare chest, admittingly—and finally toward his face, though its specifically his lips if he were being entirely honest: "Is that your subtle way of asking me to dinner? Even if it's not, I'm coming anyway, and you can't stop me."  
  
Hands raise defensively before his chest as he nods vigorously in response, "I was definitely asking you to dinner and I was just waiting for you to catch on and hopefully stop me before I left."  
  
Eyes narrow in response and his brows furrow before he's chuckling to himself. "Merdinha. You just assumed I'd say 'yes,' huh?" But he's smirking nonetheless as he slings an arm around the blond. "I like a man that's confident, but that doesn't mean I'm easy. It takes a lot more than being outrageously tall and good with your hands to eat this brigadeiro."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Meu deus, I have so much to teach you. You're lucky you have me now."  
  
"I think so, too."  
  
Another snicker emanates from Rafinha as he places his hand at the back of Marc's waist, his thumb pressing there and rubbing through the damp material. "You must be part Brazilian."  
  
Smooth as butter, muses the brunet. And it's then he knows that he could really fall for the blond keeper that seems to be doing a decent job at catching his heart, much like the balls he managed to save today.  
  
_ -  
  
~-_ _Te estaba buscando  
Por las calles gritando  
Eso me está matando oh no_ _-~  
  
_Nearly a week after hearing the news about the engagement, he decides the two needed to speak about it in person, without the lack of proper communication a text conversation entailed. So there he is at the blond's flat in Barcelona, eyes glaring at the door, as he reluctantly rings the doorbell. Its loud and boisterous against his ears and he doesn't remember it being this obnoxious the last time he had been here, but the noise is muted when a blonde opens the door; not his blond, of course.  
  
Medium-lengthed blonde hair is thrown over her shoulder as she smiles broadly at Rafa, who barely contains a wince. "Oh, hey! Um.." She looks perplexed as she motions towards the inside of the flat, "Marc, he is—.. Um, is inside.  
  
"O que mais poderia dar errado..?" He mumbles more to himself but her brows furrow in response.  
  
"What you.. Say?"  
  
"Nothing, I was just.. Asking if I could talk to him, maybe?" She looks puzzled, still, and he offers an apologetic half-smile. "I can.. Talk to him?"  
  
"Oh.. Oh! Yes, yes. Come," she motions towards the inside of the flat with a welcoming grin on her lips as she leads him toward the living room is, as if he hadn't been there multiple times on a variety of occasions, even deflowered the couch that still laid there "He will.. Be a minute."  
  
But he doesn't response this time and is instead offering a nod of his head as he runs his fingers along the plush material of the stark, white couch that blends well with the cream and mocha-colored furnishings and paintings, among other things. Fingers strum impatiently on the arm of the chair as heeled feet retreat from the area, relocating who-knows-where, when he hears a soft gasp from behind him.  
  
When he glances back, he finds Marc staring at him, his expression a multitude of emotion: he looked hurt, perplexed, melancholy, angry. His usually pale countenance begins to flush, first, a light pink before deepening into a deep crimson as he approaches the couch and stands over the brunet who had blatantly refused all his calls and texts that entire week.  
  
"Fuck, Rafa—W-what?" And now he just looks flustered as he buries his face within his hands and releases a soft groan: "I—.. You can't just show up like this after not talking to me for a week.."  
  
"Yet here I am," and it sounds a lot more bitter than he intends it to, but fuck it. Let the man hear how much of a wreck he had been since receiving the information.  
  
Marc withdraws his hands from his face in favor of frowning in disapproval at the brunet, who crosses a leg over his knee, arms going around the back of the couch. "Did you even read my texts or listen to my voicemails?"  
  
Rafinha neither confirms nor denies it as he nods his head in the direction of the empty spot beside him on the couch. Hesitantly, the blond takes a seat, though he leaves a decent amount of space between them. "I just wanted to talk.. I knew something was up when you were talking all serious via text, and that's not like you.. Fuck, it _ is _like you to be serious, even in textual situations." He chuckles to himself and shakes his head, motioning aimlessly with one of his hands. "Tell me, Marqu—Ter. What's going on, talk to me."  
  
The man doesn't meet his gaze and instead stares toward the plush rug beneath his feet, scuffing it with the bottom of his worn sneakers. "I'm getting married, Rafa, we talked about it already.."  
  
"But that's not all, is it? Something else happened then?" Rafinha watches his face in scrutiny, eyes narrowed, when he notices the wince that crosses his countenance.  
  
"Nothing happened."  
  
"You're a terrible liar, Ter, so give it up or I swear—.."  
  
"You'll do what?" Marc is honestly curious as he glances up to meet the latter's fervent gaze, his tanned hands clenching into fists.  
  
Rafinha's body trembles slightly in agitation at the provocation and he finds himself leaning across the couch to slant his mouth over the latter's, whose lips parted at the abruptness, but hesitantly moves along with his regardless. "Eu vou... Te amar.." He manages to breathe in between kisses, nipping furiously at Marc's bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth. "E-eu te odeio.. P-por isso.."  
  
Hands fist at Marc's shirt as he tugs him closer against his own form, desperate to feel the warmth that his body provides. Marc is groaning into the kiss, his tongue pressing back against Rafinha's, in search of dominance but the brunet doesn't relent and the blond doesn't seem to mind as he allows himself to be tugged on.  
  
"Du wirst immer mein sein," breathes the German as he reluctantly pulls away from the kiss, using the pad of his thumb along the latter's bottom lip, the brunet staring at him with wide, glassy eyes.  
  
"You can't," comes his weak squeak as he fights the familiar prick against the back of his eyes.  
  
Marc looks as utterly wrecked as he feels, and he still has no thorough explanation for why that is. "I don't have a ch—.. Oh, hey." He seems the blonde in his peripheral vision and he's quick to right himself beside Rafa, who scowls at him in disapproval, but smiles at the woman nonetheless.  
  
"Things.. Are.. Well, yes?"  
  
Rafinha is tempted to answer with negative connotation but Marc seems to catch on, and he flashes a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes: "Alles ist gut."  
  
And all Rafinha thinks is 'liar,' but he doesn't dare voice it aloud as he rises to his feet, offering an unenthusiastic wave to the two Germans, and heads for the door without so much as a word._  
  
-  
  
By the time the interview is over, the Brazilian is rolling his eyes in obvious annoyance, or perhaps that was the bitterness acting for him. Everything the German had said seemed so fake and contrived, almost as if reading from prompted queue cards and, if he wasn't so innately put-off by the whole wedding aspect, he probably would have snickered and figured that was so characteristically Marc.  
  
~-_ _Vivir si ti, no aguanto más  
Por eso vengo a decirte lo que siento  
Estoy sufriendo en esta soledad_ _-~  
  
But using all of his energy to remain enraged with the blond eventually runs out after a short while and he's left with the playlist looping until that one, particular song plays once more. He heaves a groan as he flips off the television and instead stands up this time, stretching his aching limbs, before strolling towards the adjoining kitchenette.  
  
Perhaps a drink could help take his mind off of the situation?  
  
One drink turned into two which quickly turned into six and now he's currently leaning over the island with phone in hand, a number already dialed in, just waiting for the desired person to pick up:  
  
"How many times are you going to call me in a few days time, meu deus, that's a record. Even for you." Comes Neymar's voice over the receiver as he traces the tips of his pointer finger along the outer rim of the shot glass.  
  
"A million more, probably, thanks though irmão."  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You watched that interview, didn't you? Pretty sure Messi and Adriano told you specifically not to, you're so hard-headed sometimes."  
  
Rafinha snorts into the speakers as he places the phone on speaker so he can pour himself yet another shot. "Hell yeah I did, and now I regret it.. But I think I found my new best friend in the form of alcohol, you asshole."  
  
"Getting drunk alone isn't going to help you win back your precious Marquinho," and for a moment the other line is silent before he speaks once more: "would it hurt just to just talk to him? He's been begging Dani to convince you to call him."  
  
Slightly tipsy, the brunet mocks the latter word for word, snorting once more as he downs the shot. "What more.. Could there possibly be left to say? Other than 'I left you for a woman with somewhat nice tits and perfect teeth?' Huh?"  
  
"To be fair: you have perfect teeth." Neymar quips with a considerate hum, which is enough to make the lad chuckle. "Who needs tits anyway? Don't they just get in the way? Point is: you should probably call? I mean, things could have changed. It's been a month, y'know."  
  
"Being heartbroken over text is one thing, rejection over the phone is another. Frankly, I don't prefer either and I'd rather be lonely and sulk than hear aquele bastardo's voice."  
  
"Dammit, Rafa. I'm trying to be supportive here and you're make it difficult for me. Stop being a coward and just dial his number. Literally takes less than five seconds, and you don't even have to say anything. Meu deus, he would probably do all the talking himself and you won't have to say anything. If your dramatic ass can't handle what he's saying, you could always hang up instead of cussing him out in Português, especially since he has no idea what you're saying. You're worse than Rafaella when she breaks up with her boyfriends."  
  
Another scoff. "I can't take offense to that right now.. But I will when I sober up."  
  
"Call ther German, Rafinha, and hear him out. I was in the middle of teaching Davi the keys on the piano to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, go harass someone else. Like Pique. See you, irmao."  
  
Great.  
  
Now he was actually considering it.  
  
But he manages to restrain from dialing the number and instead retreats to his room in favor of turning on Netflix to select a random movie that he eventually falls asleep to.  
  
-  
  
Another week passes like that; the Brazilian attending training and strengthening sessions and shamelessly posting the photos and videos onto Instagram for lack of better things to do. His brother, Thiago, was far too busy for him to call and he didn't desire to bother him while he was so focused anyway. He would allow the male to maintain the smile he wore whenever he was out on the pitch and wouldn't be selfish and bring him down with his relationship woes.  
  
On that Friday night he finds himself in the back of a cafe lounge that would close in close to an hour, aimlessly sipping on a now cooled coffee. It was pretty counter-productive of him, he knew, seeing as he was bound to have a surge of energy without a proper outlet to release it. He glances across the table at Bartra, who stares at him in silent sympathy, and rolls his eyes.  
  
"Not you, too."  
  
Bartra shrugs a halfhearted shoulder and nibbles on his pastry, "News travels fast on the team and it's not like I wanted to know anyway. Ter is my friend, too, and it's awkward hearing his side and then hearing something completely different from you."  
  
Full lips purse firmly together as he raises the cup to take a sip, staring at the latter over the lid. "You can't say things like that and not explain what you mean," states the brunet as he takes another sip that seems to calm his nerves: "What did he tell you?"  
  
"It's not really my story to tell."  
  
The little shit is evasive and his eyes are glancing elsewhere other than Rafinha's eyes. Eventually he focuses his gaze on his half-eaten pastry, poking at it with his fingers. "Marqu—.. Him and I," he corrects himself with a prompt roll of his eyes: "aren't on speaking terms right now, plus if you were my friend, you would tell me. Secrets don't make for good friendship, you taught me that."  
  
Bartra looks as if he was suddenly questioning why he was there, sitting in that booth, with a more than intrigued Rafinha who leans across the table on his elbows. "You're going to wish you heard it from him." But he sighs nonetheless as he stabs the pastry with his fork until the remaining jelly oozes out of it. "His parents—dad, his dad.. He doesn't know that he's—.. You know." His hands are motioning this way and that as he attempts to explain the situation.  
  
The Brazilian is quirking an impatient brow and his thigh begins to nervous bounce up and down. "C'mon, Bartra. We both know you're more eloquent than that."  
  
Suddenly the brunet is leaning across the two, too, until their faces are merely inches apart. He takes extra measure to glance around the nearly vacant cafe before whispering, "His dad doesn't know that he's gay."  
  
"What?" The noise he makes is loud and obnoxious and he doesn't even notice the other patrons turning to face him as he repeats the word in a quieter voice. "What? You've got to be kidding me. I got the vibe he was catching for my team—no pun intended you merdinha—the day I met him."  
  
"I always assumed you were the 'catcher,'" Barta states thoughtfully as if he had honestly pondered it before but shrugs it off in favor of offering a small smile to the brunet. "But now you know, so you can stop sulking so much. It's a decent reason, in my opinion, he's just not ready to be out to the world yet."  
  
Tanned fingers thread throughout his beard as he stares at the lid of his coffee cup for a moment. It was a decent enough reason, yes, but not grounds for an immediate wedding like the blond had planned. Or perhaps that hadn't entirely been his idea. Nonetheless he feels somewhat hurt that Marc hadn't felt the need to share the tidbit that would have saved them both heartache from the start of their romantic relationship.  
  
"Neither am I," admits the brunet as he chews anxiously at the inner skin of his cheek. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to marry the next pretty blonde I see at the shopping mall or something."  
  
"Maybe he thought you weren't ready for that commitment either and decided to take the next step at protecting the both of you?"  
  
Okay, yeah. He hadn't thought of that one before and he had to admit that it was a decent step to take, but it still shouldn't have been his decision on his own. After all: it took two to metaphorically tango and there was no way that he would have allowed his lover to take that route on his own. Now he wishes more than ever that he would have spared the time to talk to the blond who seemed to think the answer to all his problems was to marry a woman he held no romantic feelings for.  
  
"Everything makes sense when you talk and I hate it." He releases a sigh and finishes off the remainder of his coffee. "Still, he wouldn't have to do it alone. Even if all the hate in the world was put on me for coming out or if someone snapped us together and slandered us in the paper the next morning, I wouldn't have cared because I would at least still have him to wake up to."  
  
Bartra crinkles his nose as he dips a finger in the jelly of the pastry only to lick it off the digit a second later. "I never would have thought you had a sappy bone in your entire, sarcastic body. I stand corrected." Rafinha chuckles at that, which earns him a grin from Bartra. "Maybe you should tell him that then?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
Eventually the two wrap up at the cafe with about ten minutes to spare before the closing time, being ushered into a cab that is directed to Rafinha's flat a decent ride over across town. Bartra stares out of the window of the cab at the darkness that is only illuminated by the faint street lamps that flicker every now and then.  
  
When the two arrive at the flat, Bartra asks to spend the night, to which the Brazilian agrees without hesitation. Tanned hands are reaching for the gaming controllers as soon as they're settled within the home that smells faintly of burned candles. While the game of Fifa loaded upon the television screen, Rafinha slings an arm around Bartra's body, posing for a selfie that he posted seconds later onto Instagram.  
  
In ten seconds he had garnered at least one-thousand likes and he was rather impressed by how fast the fans tended to respond to such posts.  
  
"Y'know.. I don't think getting slammed in Fifa is going to help you out much," quips Barta as shifts through the start-up menu.  
  
An amused snort emanates from the brunet in response, "Oh, you're on."  
  
~-_ _Y aunque tu padre no aprobó esta relación  
Yo sigo insistiendo a pedir perdón  
Lo único que importa está en tu corazón_ _-~  
  
-  
  
_Rain pitter-pattered rhythmically against the roof of the flat, the melancholy atmosphere matching the mood perfectly. Hazy hues stare out of the window, fingers splayed against the pane, as he stares out at the cars that zoom down the length of the flooding road. Ivory teeth gnaw at his lower lip, the skin of his inner cheeks far too raw.  
  
He wasn't certain as to how much time he had spent by the window, blankly staring out as the world rapidly continues around him. It was unfair that things continued on even in the darkest of situations, and he pondered why that was; he wished the world would pause, if only for a moment, so he could catch up without missing too much like he was bound to.  
  
He barely reacts at all when he hears the far too jolly sound of a familiar ringtone across the room, the discarded device vibrating against the linoleum to create quite the fuss. But eyes the color of a clear skies are clouded now, storms raging within their depths, and he doesn't feel as if he's capable of answering the phone even if he wanted to.  
  
If anything, he desired to be alone in his mourning. No, that's not true. That was a lie. Of course he wanted someone around but not if it meant he would bring them down to his new low. No one else deserved that type of pain and he refused to call even his most personal of friends, the ones he had grown up with, in this moment.  
  
Fingers are tapping against the window pane to the sound of the rain thudding outside, and for a moment he wishes to leave the flat in favor of sitting out there on the bench, watching as the world turns on around him. Minutes pass now, he knows, seeing as the watch around his wrist makes a beeping noise alerting another hour had gone by.  
  
He stands there a moment longer before he hears the familiar 'click,' of his front door opening. He takes a moment to inhale a deep, steadying breath and decides to feign that all was well, even if things were far from it. But instead of words he's greeted with russet arms wrapping securely around his waist, the warmth of a face pressing against his back.  
  
"Rafa—..?"  
  
"Stop. You don't have to say anything."  
  
Rafinha interjects as he squeezes the male tighter with his warmth, Marc's body nothing more than a cool block against his chest. But he knows what this type of pain is like and he empathizes with the living marble statue that is far too rigid against him. After a moment, however, the statue seems to melt for it's stoic-like posture and begins to tremble slightly.  
  
"It's not okay, I'm not going to lie." Comes his steady words as he tightens his grip upon the male's waist: "It's going to hurt like hell and it's going to be like that for a while.. I wish I could lie to you and say everything'll be okay, but you know me.." Cue the bitter, breathless laugh from the shuddering form. "I know what happened and—.. And I don't know what to say that could make it better. But you don't have to say a thing, Marquinho."  
  
Silence surrounds the two until eventually the taller shifts within the embrace to face the Brazilian, staring at him with glassy eyes, before gripping onto his shoulders and burying his face within the crook of his neck. "I don't.. Mein Gott, I don't k-know what to do.."  
  
"Not crying would be a start," teases the brunet but it lacks the punch he desired and he's wrapping his arms around the giant, pressing against the back of his neck so his frigid face is properly covered.  
  
Wetness stains the Brazilian's t-shirt but he doesn't seem to mind at all, more than grateful that the blond is finally admitting his loss and allowing himself to be consumed with the mourning process. He knows that not mourning just makes it harder, though he was certain that aspect was obvious. But he sees the positives—as always—and hopes that the tears are the first step to recovery. "  
  
Why are you here, Rafa?"  
  
That voice is the most heartbreaking thing he has ever heard and he finds himself clutching his fingers into the the thin shirt the blond adorns. "That's a stupid question," And for a moment he allows silence to pass between them before allowing his eyes to flutter close. "Simple, Marquinho.. I heard what happened and I know what it's like, to lose someone important to you.. So I came as fast as I could, even skipped training, because I didn't want you to be alone.. You have this whole hard, tough facade going on like nothing bothers you but I know you, and you should know that it's okay to be weak sometimes. You can't be strong all the time, even Hercules had his moments."  
  
This time he hears rather than sees the soft half-sob, half-laugh that wracks his form, the man shifting his head until his cool lips are pressing against the side of the smooth, russet column of Rafinha's throat: "What would I do w-without you?"  
  
"That's a good question, too bad you'll never find the answer."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Fingers trail from his back to find the soft, wispy hairs at the nape of his neck, combing them down with his digits. At least the trembling form is reduced to faint twitches now and the sound of his breathing is beginning to even out. Hands that painfully gripped at his shoulders loosen their hold and slip downward to wrap around the latter's slender waist, tugging him closer. His head remains nestled against his neck, however, and he feels the soft whispering against his skin: "But why, Rafa?" Lips tremble slightly as they press into the side of his neck.  
  
A snort. "Probably because I love you."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Rafinha withdraws reluctantly from the embrace to stare up into the latter's tear-stained face and offers him a light pat on the cheek, "Yeah. So that means I'm going to take care of you until you're better." he offers a reassuring smile as he shifts on his heel to saunter off towards the kitchenette.  
  
Marc stares after him, stunned, before his legs finally decide that they're capable of mobile function. He glumly trails behind the Brazilian, though the tiny smile framing his lips is a sign that there's hope for the future. He plops into one of the seats at the table and places an elbow upon the surface, framing his chin in his hand. Cerulean eyes, less clouded than before, watch as the male rifles through the kitchen, the sound of glass clinking making him shake his head affectionately.  
  
Eventually a few minutes passes and there is coffee displayed in front of him along with a half-burnt grilled cheese sandwich. Marc eyes the display quizzically, then glances back up at Rafinha who rolls his eyes.  
  
"Not everyone is a master cook, Ter."  
  
But the man slides his hands into the handle of the mug, the warmth radiating throughout his frame, and takes a sip that burns the inside of his mouth. "No, no.. I—thank you, so much." There's still a tiny smile that frames his lips and Rafinha notices it, quirking his head curiously to the side.  
  
"What? You could just peel the burnt edges off, no harm no foul—"  
  
"Not that," murmurs the male between nibbles at the sandwich before him, fingers glistening with the butter used. "I meant, well—You know.. Loving me.. That. That means a lot, Rafa, more than you know."  
  
Thoughtfulness passes over his countenance before the brunet offers a small nod, pulling out a chair and sitting beside him: "Yeah, well.. You don't thank someone for loving you, usually you just say it back."  
  
"I love you, Rafael."  
  
Said male soothes his lips with his tongue as he hears the words. Chocolate eyes scan the latter's face for any sign of disturbance before deciding that, yeah, maybe he meant it just as much as he had. A genuine smile forms upon his countenance for the first time that day as he reaches forward to place a warm hand upon the latter's thigh, offering it a reassuring squeeze._  
  
-  
  
~-_ _Yo te juré a ti eterno amor  
Y ahora otro te da calor  
Cuando en las noches tienes frío oh oh_ _-~  
  
Another week came and went and things seemed to be looking up for the Brazilian. He would be playing against soon and for that he was grateful, though he was being pushed to work harder with his training. Not that it was a burden for him, of course not, whatever would get him back into the game.  
  
Though if he were being honest, he was slightly peeved. In less than two weeks the German footballer would be wedding his girlfriend in a quaint ceremony with only close friends invited. He had received an invitation as expected as well as numerous calls from Marc that he had simply rejected in favor of hitting up the gym, deciding that hitting up the punching bags would be something fun.  
  
So there the three are releasing pent-up tension in the form of striking the punching bag that swings nonchalantly. Something the raven-haired boy says beside him captures his attention, however, even if it's whispered and barely audible and not meant for his ears: "Have you seen Ter Stegen's Instagram?"  
  
"Nah, man, why? What's up, what happened?"  
  
Rafinha momentarily halts his punching in favor of feigning a stretch, slinging an arm across his chest and tugging on it. He cants his head in the direction of the low whispering, brows furrowing tightly together as he tries to piece the conversation together.  
  
"All those photos of that girl? What's her name again..? Well, whatever. They're all gone. Weird, huh?"  
  
"You're kidding, man."  
  
"Nu uh. Dead serious."  
  
Chocolate eyes roll in response as he continues his stretching, feeling way too tense all of a sudden, before returning to the punching bag that leisurely swings back and forth as if taunting him. Like it was offering itself to him. Eyes narrow slightly as he maintains his posture, attempting to show the information hadn't bothered him and that he was oblivious to the conversation at hand, though eventually he drops his stance and instead steadies the bag so it halts its movement.  
  
"You both are bad at whispering," murmurs Rafinha who swipes his arm across his face to rid it of perspiration.  
  
"Shit. What all did you hear?" The fair-skinned man inquired with a wince as he stops spotting the raven-haired lad who squeaks as he struggles to hold the weights up.  
  
"All of it?"  
  
"Oh," murmurs the raven-haired man as he finally rights the weights and sits up, tugging at his muscle shirt uncomfortably. "It's not a big deal.. I know you don't like talking about him, so I just—Nevermind."  
  
All the brunet does is reach for the towel laying haphazardly across one of the nearby treadmills, dabbing at his face for a minute, before wrapping it around his shoulders. "Well?"  
  
The fairer of the three shrugs a halfhearted shoulder, "It just a few deleted pictures, nothing too serious. Just figured that maybe he wanted to keep his private-life, well—Private."  
  
"We're famous footballers," murmurs the brunet who coins his friend a look: "there's nothing really private about our lives, Cisco."  
  
Cisco only shrugs once more before tapping the raven-haired boy on the shoulder and motions for him to revert back to the lifting of the weights: "There's been some tabloids out, too.. Right, Matteo?"  
  
Matteo nods enthusiastically as he lays back down, gripping onto the iron tightly, before lifting it up and above his head: "Yup, those too." He manages to huff as he works on his arm muscle.  
  
"I have no idea what you guys are talking about?"  
  
Matteo snorts to himself, "Probably because you don't really leave your flat anymore except to exercise and train." Cisco scowls down at the raven-haired boy and shakes his head in disapproval. "What? It's true, you've become a hermit."  
  
"Cisco?"  
  
"Alright, alright. Just rumors about the breaking of the engagement, that's all. How it was randomly announced back in February and how it's now April and the 'happy couple,' hasn't been spotted together at all. Then, you know how people are, they stalked his Instagram and all his photos of her are gone."  
  
Millions of thoughts run rampant throughout his mind as he stands there, completely dumbfounded. Of course it was partially his fault since he was less than social nowadays. Perhaps he would pick-up a tabloid or two and return a few of the calls from his fellow teammates with interesting voicemail messages left behind. Maybe they had been trying to tell him to?  
  
Lyrics play absently within the back of his mind as he waves the information away dismissively, deciding to focus on his exercises:  
  
~-_ _Yo sé que él te parece mejor  
Pero yo estoy en tu corazón  
Y por eso pido perdón_ _-~  
  
-  
  
A few days passes and he is more than caught up with the whole situation at hand, though he is more confused than ever. He is well aware that the wedding was scheduled a week from now, but was determined to somehow contact the blond in whatever way, shape, or form to express his true feelings for him in hopes that this madness would end.  
  
It was evident then that Marc had had intense feelings for him but now? Now he wasn't as confident in those feelings and his leg is bouncing up and down once more. His fingers are typing aimlessly away at his laptop and he posts a random status to his Twitter account before logging onto Facebook. He clicks on a few of the messages, nothing too interesting there, and heaves a sigh.  
  
Fingers instead reach for the glass that rests upon the table to take a refreshing sip of soda before glancing toward the front of the cafe. It was nearly empty, the late hours of the night sending everyone home earlier as per usual. He really needed to stop his habit of visiting the cafe when no one else was present; being lonely definitely wasn't helping his mood.  
  
But he finishes off his pastry and collects his things, sliding his laptop into his messenger bag, and tossing it over one of his shoulders. He nods in the direction of the cashier who waves back in regard with a broad grin upon her lightly glossed lips. Instead of catching a taxi, like he had originally planned, he decided to stroll down the lengthy road home.  
  
And he doesn't mind as he's stopped for photographs and he occupies himself with signing whatever materials were thrusted in his face. Doesn't mind the chatter that temporary distracts him, decides that he probably needs a little human contact in his life. Giggly fan-girls were always nice, though, and they don't seem to mind as he excuses himself to begin his trek.  
  
It was a long, quiet twenty-minute walk home and by the time he reaches his flat, he's exhausted. Fingers reach for the keys within his pocket before glancing at the door knob, wiggling it experimentally, to find it open to his will. Brows furrow suspiciously as he cautiously strolls inside to find the lights faintly on in the living room area.  
  
"Um—?"  
  
When he strolls into the living room area, he finds a blond pacing back and forth upon the carpet, eyes focused on the plush surface. He glances up when he notices the brunet and offers a broad, apologetic smile and it reaches his melancholy-looking eyes.  
  
"Hi."  
  
"Hey?"  
  
Pregnant silence fills the air around them and neither even dare to breathe a word, let alone breathe in general, as they take in the other. The brunet is dressed down in a pair of loose-fitting, gray shorts and a simple Nike short while the blond is wearing a pair of simple, black jeans and that sweater he tends to wear in the Barcelona heat.  
  
"I couldn't do it, Rafa." Comes the soft, accented voice as he rubs uncomfortably at his upper arm, averting their gaze to stare instead at the painting lining the walls of the flat. "I'm so, so sorry and I know you don't want to hear it and I wanted to say it sooner but—" He strolls toward one of the paintings that clashed with the entirety of the flat, casting a glance at the brunet over his shoulder: "you weren't answering my calls or my texts, and I really needed to talk to you.. Then I found your key in one of my drawers and figured I would come over but you weren't home?"  
  
Okay, so. He couldn't deny that he was pleased by the sudden turn of events but he still, he wavers from foot to foot. "So.. Now you're here.. What is it? Something happen?" Once more the man shifts but decides to plop unceremoniously upon the couch as he watches the stiff German in the corner of the room, seemingly awed by the painting there.  
  
"I love you," murmurs the German in a gentle voice as he reaches up to brush the pads of his fingers along the textured painting. "And I can't marry someone I don't love, not when I have you here." He pulls his fingers back and glances at his feelings, half-expecting some residue to be present there. But he doesn't turn around and instead nervously fiddles with the strings on his hoodie. "You wouldn't answer my calls or texts, and I needed to tell you in person, how much you mean to me.."  
  
"Marquinho—..?"  
  
Marc's head twists to face the brunet currently folded neatly upon the couch, smiling at the fond nickname and all the memories it brings. "I always like it when you call me that," hums the German as he shifts to face the brunet, all smiles and bright eyes. "It makes me feel.. I, well.. You know I'm not good with words and I'm sort of nervous right now and you—You're not—.." Deep breath. "Are you.. Happy?"  
  
Ivory teeth chew upon his plump bottom lip at the inquisition and he thinks for a fraction of a second that the blond is in a drunken stupor, except he can't smell any hints of alcohol within the air: "I.. I don't know."  
  
Marc nods his head in acknowledgement and stays silent for a moment. "I realized that.. I don't like being away from you too long, and that I don't care what anyone else thinks.. My dad be damned, Rafa, I want to be with you and only you.. I wish I was better with words," Hands are moving this way and that as he attempts to explain his feelings, eyes squinted slightly, as if choosing his words. "I'm not happy when I'm not with you and I've thought really hard about it all and if I marry anyone, it has to be you. I won't marry anyone else, not even to make my family happy because.. Because it's okay to be selfish when it comes to what I want, right?"  
  
"Marqu—.."  
  
"Wait, just.. Listen, please?" Rafa nods weakly in response and nibbles at his lower lip once more: "You always said that when you want something, you have to fight for it, and I want you.. And I've been fighting for you ever since you left that one night, when she walked in on us. Even she knew what was going on between us and her and I talked about it and she understood why I did what I did—And.. And I guess I need you to get it, too, so I can make this all okay again so we don't fight anymore because I don't like thinking about being the one that causes you pain." He winces himself as he speaks the word and gulps deeply, gathering his thoughts. "I had a taste of what it was like to lose you, and I can't go through that again. Ever. So I guess what I'm saying is.."  
  
Long legs send him in the direction of Rafinha, chocolate eyes wide and glassy and studying him wearily, and finds himself leaning down until he's kneeling on the floor. Palms are resting upon the brunet's exposed knees, the skin there warm beneath his touch, his oceanic eyes locking on his darker ones.  
  
"Will you take me back? Even though I fucked everything up and made you go through all of that?" Lips quirk into a small, hopeful and reserved smile and Rafinha looks like he's contemplating the decision, which makes Marc all the more doubtful: "Please, I don't want you to leave me."  
  
"You're so stupid," murmurs the Brazilian with a small frown forming upon his lips. "I hate you as much as I love you and you never should have made that dumb decision in the first place—but.. I won't leave if you swear not to leave again. Deal?" He offers up a skinny pinkie and thrusts it toward the blond who blinks at it, but smiles nonetheless.  
  
"Deal, deal, deal. Never again. You don't have to worry about anything like that ever again, Rafa, I swear on everything I have and will ever have. Just—just.. Please?"  
  
And like that, Rafinha knew he was making the right decision, as he leans forward to accept the lips that meet him halfway and he knows that, for a fact, it was never one or the other. It always the both of them, eager to seal the bond between them, and it was never a competition. Because all that mattered right now were the lips pressing erratic kisses to his mouth, hands caressing his cheeks then down his neck, and eventually slipping beneath the thin-lining of his shirt.  
  
And like that, he finds himself pressed against the couch, his legs falling open to accommodate Marc's body. Hands are everywhere at once and breath is difficult to obtain as he allows the hand that slips beneath his loose shorts, head falling back against the couch, his back arching into the touch that is so gingerly provided for him.  
  
And like that, he loses all coherent thought, like he always did whenever he was around the German who always knew the right things to say regardless of the situation. The one who he also learned knew the right places to nibble and pepper with kisses as well, his hands warm and large and stroking in a rhythmic pattern that knows when to squeeze and when to stroke.  
  
And like that, he knew the surge of pleasure that filled his vision was the purest form of sin he had experienced in the entirety of his young, young life. The way that his cry was silenced by a pair of reddened lips and how those lips had shifted to his ear, whispering soft words in German there, soothing him through his blissful haze.  
  
And like that, he knew that sometimes it took two people falling apart to fall back together again. Knew that nothing could possibly come between them again as long as Marc held him just like he is now, nuzzling his cool nose into his neck, and promising on the stars that he would do anything in his power to keep him happy; even if it meant lassoing each speckle of light and rearranging them with Rafinha's name.  
  
~-_ _Es que yo sin ti  
Y tú sin mi_  
_Dime quién puede ser feliz_  
_Esto no me gusta_  
_Esto no me gusta_ _-~

**Author's Note:**

> Bad? Good? Confusing? Probably a mixture. xD
> 
> For some reason my formatting got messed up when I copy and pasted from Notepad? And it took me a little while to fix it all, so I hope it's readable and looks okay? Though if a paragraph or two looks a little out of place, just let me know, and I'll fix it ? :3 
> 
> Thank yu guise :3


End file.
